


Where the Wildlings Are

by HareBrained



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Jealous Derek, M/M, Nights Watch Boyd, Nights Watch Derek, Nights Watch Isaac, Wildling Lydia, Wildling Stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:59:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2332784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HareBrained/pseuds/HareBrained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale, Brother of the Night's Watch, is sent beyond The Wall to capture the 'Wildling Prince' under the orders of Commander Gerard Argent.</p>
<p>He meets Stiles, a wildling and independant spirit to boot, who also happens to be the so called 'prince' he is looking for.</p>
<p>Not that Derek knows this. No, that would be too easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Wildlings Are

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my first multi-chaptered fic! 
> 
> It'll be in two parts, and I'll update the tags when needed.

It had been three years since Derek began his duty as a member of the Night’s Watch. Three blustery, ice cold years of glares from Commander Argent and fighting drills in the slowly freezing mud.  Hailing from the North, just shy of the Wall, Derek was used to the bitter weather - though he had been told he should wait for when winter truly arrives in earnest. He’s wrapped up in the traditional black uniform, huddled over a fire at the edge of the Wall when Isaac - a runaway from one of the more southern villages - jogs up to him.

“Derek!” He shouts, clutching a stitch at his side. “Commander Argent is looking for you.”

Derek raises a brow before rolling his eyes, heaving himself up from where he had been crouched, staring into the flames.  “What does he want?”

Isaac shakes his head. “I don’t know. He just told me to get your ‘bastard ass’ down to his quarters.”

Resigned, Derek nods. There was no way he could avoid a request from any commander, let alone Argent. The man in question had set out to remind him of his bastard status. Yes, he was Lord Hale’s bastard son, and though he wasn’t treated as such by his family, many outsiders were keen to remind him of his dubious parentage.

Despite his summons, and Gerard’s obvious - if slightly sinister - authority, that didn’t mean Derek couldn’t take his time to get there. Weighed down by his armour, Derek wandered to the cage-like lift found at the top of the wall. He stepped inside, shutting the metal door behind him and pulling the lever fixed in one of the corners. With a lurch, the lift began its descent down the Wall, shuddering and wobbling every so often.

Eventually, Derek touched down and made his way to the office secreted in the corner of Castle Black. He knocked on the door, waiting for the gruff order to _‘enter’_ before stepping into the room. Stood in the corner, looking across a collection of aged maps and scrolls was Commander Argent. His mouth was curled into a sneer of displeasure as he looked across the plottings of what looked to be the wild lands beyond the wall.

Without turning around, Commander Argent addressed him. “Bastard.”

“Sir.” Derek replied, inclining his head in reluctant respect.

A few moments passed before the Commander turned to face him, face scrunched up in displeasure. Despite the bulk of his armour, the man looked lank and frail, years of command making him weary and weak. No one would ever day admit this to the man’s face, though it was common belief that Gerard’s time as commander was slimming. Perhaps he knew this already, the man was clever enough, he would seek out other ways to keep his position - some would call it a rule - over the Night’s Watch.

“I’ve got a mission for you, Bastard. We both know I don’t like you, never have liked you, that, you your damned family. But it seems to me that’s you’re the only fool around here with any common sense and half a brain. There is no reason other than this as to why you’re going to be doing the mission for me. You are not my favourite. You are not special. Is that understood, _Bastard_?”

Derek grunted his acknowledgement.

“I’ve had word from some contacts on the wild side of the wall. It seems like a significant gathering of wildlings has formed, and they have even managed to name one of them their king. Gods know how they even have the grasp of monarchy in their thick skulls.”

Gerard stops a moment, looking to Derek for confirmation. “What do you want me to do?” he asks, walking towards the map in the centre of the table. A number of small tacks are pinned into numerous locations across the wrinkled paper. He guesses only Gerard knows their meanings.

 “I want,” the older man starts, “I want you to track down the Wild King’s son. He’s a key weakness in the man’s resolve, and if we take him, the rest of the wildling forces will crumble, maybe even revolt.”

Derek frowns, considering what Gerard means. “You mean to keep him prisoner? In Castle Black?”

“You’re not here to question my orders, _Bastard._ You’re here to follow them through _to the letter._ Is that understood?”

The younger man nods, acquiescing to Commander Argent’s wishes. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, the rangers who came back earlier in the week believe that the clan camps somewhere in the area where the forest meets the more hilly areas.” Commander Argent points to the place on the map. “ _But,_ they do tend to hunt further in the woods, so it’s likely there will be a number of traps and rangers of their own within that area.”

Derek nods again, plans already forming in the back of his mind. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Commander Argent replies. “You’ve got one week or I’m sending in the cavalry. Don’t let me down, _Bastard.”_

 

* * *

 

Derek is back in the lower cabins of the Night’s Watch packing his bags for the trip when Isaac and Boyd walk in, looks of confusion on their faces. They glance at the simple clothing and weaponry on the table, and back to Derek as they try and piece together what was going on.

Minutes pass before Boyd breaks the silence. “A disguise?”

Derek grumbles in confirmation, continuing to stuff his rucksack. He was going on a whim - no one of the Night’s Watch had done something like this before - packing the essentials and nothing more. Packing light.

“What does the commander want you to do?” Isaac asks, wringing his hands together.

Derek shrug, playing nonchalance and ignoring his own anxiousness. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

Turning his back on the others, he walks into his own room, taking the disguise with him. To escape the biting chill, he strips down efficiently, and before his black uniform hits the floor, he’s clad in light deer skins and thick leathers. Both common fabrics for the wildlings, though he had no idea how the Wildling Prince would appear.

Rattling, he opens the door again to find his friends - brothers really - still waiting for him. Derek can tell they want answers, but the commander had advised him to keep the mission as secret as possible, in case the wildlings had eyes and ears in the castle.

Ignoring their gaze, he strides over to the table, grabbing the dagger found there and sheathing it between his belt and furs. He picks up the rucksack, slinging it over his back and fastening it securely, knowing that he had to make sure it would stay there, even if he had to run from wildlings.

With one final glance, he turned, walking out the door and away from his brothers in black.

 

* * *

 

Derek made his way out of the castle, leading a freshly saddled horse out of one of the mail tunnels through the Wall. As he exited the opposite side, he was hit with a blast of howling winds. His horse whinnied as Derek planted his feet in a stirrup, throwing a leg over the saddle and settling upon its back. He adjusted himself before nudging the horse forwards, setting a steady enough pace for the animal.  
  
The snow was deep, reaching high up his ride's legs. For hours he picked his way through knotted undergrowth and fallen tree trunks. High in the sky was the sun, shining down on the fluffy snow until it was almost blinding.  
  
There weren't any signs of life in the dense woodlands, apart from the distant howls of wolves and the soft hoots of owls. Twigs snap under the horse's hooves, and Derek is reminded that the main essence of the mission is subterfuge. He'll have to leave his mount behind if he wants to take the Wildling Prince by surprise.

Eventually, Derek found a patch of grass unhindered by trees, so he dismounted, allowing his horse to graze for a while as he gathered his bearings. Eyes flicking between the trees he reached backwards to his rucksack, unfastening it before pulling out a small amount of food he had packed earlier. The bread was chewy and tough, but it was sustaining, and that’s what Derek needed if he was going to be out in the forest for a long time.

When both his and his horses’ energy was replenished, he clambered back on his ride and continued his journey, constantly wary of his surroundings. One of the first things Derek had learned when he joined the Night’s Watch was that wildlings, as primitive as they seemed, had enough cunning to rival those in the capital. Wildlings utilised their surroundings, blending with the trees and rocks, using the sounds of nature around them to lure out prey and corner outsiders. It had been a long time since Derek had been beyond the Wall and into the wild lands, so he took the time to reacquaint himself with the buzzes, snaps, and creaks of the woodlands. Trained as he has been, it would not be as difficult to recognise the sounds of a wildling tracking him.

Or so he thought.

 

* * *

 

Derek swivelled sharply, only to come face to face with a knocked arrow. He froze, ensuring that he made no sudden movements and endanger his life further.  
  
When he knew he wouldn't get a face full of arrows, he looked up to the Wildling holding the bow and arrow. He was a young man, perhaps in his twentieth year, with striking features. Pale skin canvased his lean frame, dotted with a number of moles. The Wildling, though of a stern expression, had large eyes, much like the deer Derek had hunted in his youth. However, instead of the murky brown of the animal, they resembled mead, a honeyish colour that was rarely seen in the North. Mud, Derek observed, was streaked across the man's nose and cheek, put there by the long, dirtied fingers currently wielding the weapon pointed at Derek.  
  
Like Derek, the young man was clad in furs and skins, held together by windings of rope. Where they differed, Derek noted, was that the Wildling's were old, well worn, and packed tighter against his body, probably from years of use softening the material.  
  
Harsh with accent, the Wildling broke Derek from his thoughts. "Who are you? What do you want?"  
  
In an attempt to distract the man, Derek began talking, making up some excuses for meeting the King Beyond the Wall. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered one of his hands, reaching for the dagger hidden within layers of fur.  
  
"King Beyond the Wall?" The Wildling scoffed. "We have no Kings here, where are you from? Hey - what are you -"  
  
Dagger raised high, Derek leapt at the man, slashing broadly at the bow raised before him. The Wildling slunk to the side, dodging the frenzied attack and throwing himself at Derek.  
  
They tumbled to the ground, wrestling and cursing one another. In the scuffle, the Wildling grabbed Derek's wrist in a bruising grip, forcing him to drop the dagger. Sitting on Derek's hips, the Wildling forced him into the snow, picking up the knife and holding it at his throat.  
  
Derek watched at the Wildling's full lips stretched into a grin. The expression almost savage, the man on top of him bared his teeth like a predator.  
  
"Speak." The man ordered, shaking Derek slightly.  
  
Derek shifted, subtly testing the hold the Wilding had on him. "Tell me who I am speaking to first. Tell me your name."  
  
Knees tightened from where they were holding Derek in place. The Wildling wasn't shaking, his hold on both the knife and Derek sure and steady. "Stiles, you can call me Stiles."  
  
"Okay, Stiles. What do you want to know?"  
  
The Wildling - Stiles - licked his lips, remoistening them from the cold. Derek tracks the movement. "What is your purpose here?"

Derek thinks for a moment, considers how he’s best going to gain access to the clan, and ultimately the Wildling Prince. Before he left, Commander Argent had told him that the king was a man who went by the name of Stilinski. Despite this knowledge, Derek couldn’t let Stiles know he’s aware of the clan leader’s name. That would give him away, and, he doesn’t even know how close to the King this Stiles is, so he might not be of any use.

Stiles presses the dagger against his throat a little more firmly, a reminder that he hadn’t given the wildling a reason yet. Derek shuffles again, before replying: “The winds are getting colder, and winter is growing nearer. I seek the protection of the clan, and in doing so, seek the approval of its leader.”

Minutes pass as Stiles considers him; those warm, molten eyes bore into his own before abruptly standing, grabbing Derek’s hand and pulling him up as well. “You speak mighty proper for a man beyond the wall.”

Derek’s throat clicks as he swallows. “It’s just the way I talk, nothing strange about it.”

The man - Stiles - hums in consideration. “Alright, I’ll take you to the camp.” He takes Derek’s dagger, holstering it in an empty strap on his thigh, bow already in place on his back. “But I’m taking this knife, mind you. You could be anyone.”

Derek nods, already mourning the loss of his weapon. “Fair enough.”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, the camp is further away than Derek had anticipated. He had gathered his horse, leading it alongside him as he wandered next to Stiles. During the walk Derek had learned many things about Stiles, it becoming apparent that he was incredibly chatty about nothing in particular. Maybe he had been consciously hiding the secrets of his clan, or maybe was just one of their numbers, distant enough from the King to know nothing. He also, Derek had found out, seemed to be rather intelligent.

“How did you get a horse like that anyway?” Stiles asked, patting the animal’s flank. “Looks nothing like ours. He’s strong, sturdy. Seems better fed than us!”

Derek winces, in his head cursing his own stupidity. “I, uh, found him wandering just south of here. Could have been left behind by a ranger, who knows?”

Stiles stops for a moment and raises an incredulous brow at him. The horse stops with him, nudging at his muddy face with its snout, attached already.

“You went _that_ close to the Wall?” He sounds a mixture of awe and disbelief, opinions distorted by his distrust of Derek. Perhaps rightly so.

By now, the sky has begun to darken. Shadows appear to expand and shift, filling out places the sunlight had once occupied. Derek becomes more aware of the growing silence as creatures throughout the woodlands nest for the night.

Behind him, Stiles has started setting up a small camp for the both of them. A small tent is planted beneath a wild grove of snow-coated trees, and from where he’s stood, Derek can see a bed roll and several extra furs lining the ground.

“I only have enough bed stuff for one, which means we’ll have to share. I didn’t exactly plan on finding anyone out in the woods today, so…” Stiles starts, rubbing the back of his neck.

Derek crawls into the tent, putting his rucksack in the corner closest to where he would be sleeping. He shuffles to the edge as Stiles crouches as the entrance, following him into the cramped space. “I don’t suppose I can have my knife back?” Derek asks.

Stiles gives him a lopsided grin, and something in Derek’s stomach flutters. The wildling settles down, putting his own pack in the opposite corner of the tent.

“I’m not even going to apologise for saying no. You could still be a killer, or _worse,_ a Crow.” Derek grimaces at the comment. “So yeah, the knife is sticking with me for now.”

Both men slide to their sides of the tent, still cautious of each other and their intentions. If Derek thought about it, Stiles could kill him     now and the king would never know he would be expecting someone. Derek would never find the Wildling Prince, let alone kidnap him, and Commander Argent would probably forgo all stealth and obliterate the camp in his wake. It amazed him how broad the implications of Stiles killing him extended, even in the near emptiness of the forest.

It wasn’t long before Derek slumped into the bed roll, strangely reassured by the constant inhale-exhale of Stiles as he drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

When Derek woke, he found himself feeling a lot warmer than he had before the previous night. Eyelids fluttering open, he looked down to find Stiles curled up against him in a solid line of heat. Becoming more aware of his surroundings, Derek realised he had circled an arm around the wildling’s back, holding him tight to his chest. Before he could move, Stiles snuffled into Derek’s bristled chin like a wolf pup, instinctively searching for more warmth. The wildling’s cropped hair was stuck out at odd angles, tickling against Derek’s ear and neck.

Derek tensed up as he realised some areas of his body had become more aware than others. The heat of the body half on top of him had Derek hard against his hip, and Derek panicked, shoving at Stiles’ shoulder so he would wake up.

He did, and with a start, too. “Huh, what?” Stiles started, sitting up and blinking the remnants of sleep from his eyes. As he realised who was beneath him, Stiles smirked, looking down at Derek with a glint in his eyes. “Oh, it’s you.”

Derek humphed, rolling his eyes at the man above him. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Laughing, Stiles wiggled his body, knee briefly brushing up against Derek’s hardness. That didn’t stop Derek from jerking away in horror, though. At his reaction, Stiles laughed louder, the sound somewhat musical.

“What’s the matter, Derek? Ashamed of your body?”

Derek stood up the best he could and began packing his equipment, grumbling as he went. “It’s improper.”

Behind him, Stiles scoffed, shoving his own belongings in a backpack. “Improper,” Stiles parroted. “You’re the strangest wildling I’ve ever met, you know that?”

Derek ignored him, nerves and guilt roiling in his stomach. Would Stiles still like him if he stole the wildling’s prince away? He assumed not.

 

* * *

 

“So what do you want to do when you get to the camp?” Stiles asks, shoulders bumping with Derek’s.

Derek pretends to think for a moment, pretends to consider what life he would lead out in the wilderness, away from the Night’s Watch. “Heavy lifting, I suppose. If that’s where I’ll be useful. I can track, too.”

Stiles snorts, eyeing him in a way that would normally make him feel awkward and defensive. Instead he flushes, the tips of his ears reddening further. “Big man like you, a tracker? I don’t see it.”

“I can track well enough.” Derek replies indignantly.

“But _how?”_ Stiles asks, circling Derek. His gaze is steady and bold, almost wolf-like as he takes in Derek’s broader frame.  “I don’t believe you.”

Derek shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

They continue to walk in silence, Derek’s horse trailing behind them with ease. The crunch of the snow beneath the feet is familiar, and even though Derek is so far from home - relying on this stranger for directions to a clan he knows very little about - the snow is a constant presence he has known his entire life. At Winterfell, at The Wall, and now beyond it, in the wild lands, it has always been there.

Hours seem like minutes in Stiles’ easy demeanour. He laughs frequently, effortlessly encouraging Derek talk, even to the point of him having to stop himself blurting information he never intended to share. They talk about the woods, Derek’s horse and Stiles’ life at the camp. Derek never learns anything of great importance, though. Always titbits about his job foraging and hunting, how he taught himself to use a bow, even how he competed against a man named Jackson (and failed) to win Lydia’s heart.

Derek had pushed down viciously against the feeling of jealousy that had risen, despite Stiles’ leering assurances that he and Lydia were good friends now: “…even though Jackson is still a jerk.”

It’s not long before the tree line begins to thin out, showing Derek a number of large tents surrounding a large, blazing campfire. Even in the woods, Derek can see wildlings milling about, carrying out menial tasks such as stoking the fire, distributing fresh water, and checking the surrounding territory for incoming danger. Everyone is clad in thick, warm furs like Stiles, and to Derek’s initial look, nobody stands out as the king or prince. He guesses they’ll be protected one of the tents, too important for working with the others.

As they finally step out of the woods, Stiles begins to chatter excitedly, explaining that he’ll take Derek to the head of the clan. _The King,_ Derek mentally corrected.

Walking to the other side of the clearing, Derek watched as Stiles stopped to talk to several people. Though most of them had a rough exterior, they seemed to smile at Stiles fondly, clapping him on the shoulder or touching his cheek in affectionate gestures. He asked many of them questions; how they were doing, what camp had been like whilst he was away, how his father was. It appeared to be a close knit community, and Derek was perplexed by the attentions placed on Stiles.

“Who’d have thought you’d be this popular?” Derek taunted, catching up with the wildling.

Stiles chuckles, turning back to face Derek. “I’ll have you know, the people here _adore_ me.”

The woman he was talking to eyes Derek warily, cautious of the stranger who has entered her home. As Derek looks around, he sees a number of people giving him odd looks, hurrying their children away and hiding what few valuables they possessed. Derek could see they all tried to look after each other, and he supposed they’d have to, with the harsh climate, the threat of the Night’s Watch and unsteady relationships with other clans.

Eventually Stiles stopped, halting Derek with a hand on his arm. They were stood outside one of the tents, just as plain as the others with no indication that anyone of a particularly high status lived there. After all, king or not, Stilinski was still a wildling.

Briefly Stiles ducked into the tent, muttering a few words to whoever was inside before popping out again, signalling Derek forward,

“It’ll be okay,” reassured Stiles, smiling gently. “Just be as honest as possible. We don’t like liars here.”

Stiles gave Derek a push, leading him towards the entrance to the tent. This was it. Derek was going to meet the King of the Wildlings, and the man whose son he would steal.

When Derek found him, that is.

 

* * *

 

When he entered the tent, Derek was first aware that even the inside looked nothing spectacular. There was nothing grand or royal about it at all, just a small wooden bed in the corner, the centrepiece being a small fire surrounded by a cluster of well used cooking tools. It looked more like a cook’s quarters than a throne room.

The next thing Derek acknowledged was the figure stood opposite the fire, facing away from him. Furs broadened his shoulders, though their sagged line made the man appear weary and exhausted instead of stiff and proud. As he turned, Derek could see he was nursing a tankard of mead. It isn’t long before the man - Stilinski - speaks.

“I see you’ve already met Stiles.” He says with a sigh, and there’s that hint of fondness again. Always seems mingled with some form of exasperation.

Derek nods, approaching gingerly. “He led me here. People in the camp seem to like him quite a lot.”

Stilinski grabs another tankard, filling it from a jug of mead sat beside the fire. Silently he hands it over to Derek, who takes a polite sip.

“That boy seems to know everything and everyone around here, always talking away a mile a minute. He’s been a great help to me.” The man admits, smiling down at his drink.

So Stiles is closer to the King than Derek had originally thought. In spite of his age, the young wildling looks to be one of Stilinski’s key advisors. Derek makes a note of the information, making sure to tell Commander Argent in case he can’t get close enough to the prince. It might even be a suitable enough substitute.

“Do you think I would be able to help out around here?” Derek blurts out, breaking Stilinski out of his reminiscing. He’s eager to get in and out of the mission, back to the (relative) safety of Castle Black, back to the warmth and company of his brothers in black.

Stilinski starts, the drink in his hand sloshing slightly.  He’s silent for a minute or two, thinking over Derek’s question before he speaks. “There are already a lot of us in the camp as it is, what with the Crow raids forcing people to find safety. But there’s always something to do around here, I’m sure we’ll find you a place.”

He claps Derek on the shoulder, the gesture fatherly and reassuring. It makes a knot form in Derek’s stomach, how he’s seen nothing but kindness from these ‘savage’ people. It’s only been a day yet, so he still has time to see what earned the Wildlings their fearsome reputation.

Without so much as hailing his arrival, Stiles enters the tent, both the bow and quiver of arrows seemingly elsewhere. If Derek had even thought it possible, the younger wildling looked brighter now. Free of the smudge of dirt across his face, his pale skin glowed like sun-touched snow.

“Chief, I’ve got a couple of things Derek could do,” Stiles interjected. “He can help with the game some of the other trackers brought back. Plenty of rabbits to skin and prepare.”

Stilinski looks to Derek, and makes a sound of agreement. “That fine with you, Derek?”

“Not a problem, sir.” He replies.

Both the wildlings laugh, Stiles dramatically wiping tears from his eyes.

“Where’d you find those manners, Derek?” Stiles chuckles, “Did the owls teach you?”

_Because I’m the bastard son of a highborn family,_ Derek wants to say. _Because I don’t belong here. Because I’ve known lords and ladies for most of my life._

Instead he grunts, thinks of his family back home, and the frequent ribbing from little Cora as Laura stood there laughing at them both. How his parents would see Derek’s stormy moods and chastise them all, sharing small smiles with one another.

 

* * *

 

Free of _King_ Stilinski’s scrutiny, Derek had time to mull over how he was going to find the prince and bring him to Castle Black without any of the wildlings catching him in the act. Beside him, Stiles is ambling along, rambling about this and that, but Derek isn’t listening. He’s watching Stiles’ mouth move, intent on following the shape of his lips as they form endless word after word.

They reach an old tree stump surrounded by a circle of fur-clad wildlings; some are skinning rabbits, whereas others are cleaning foraged herbs and berries. Each are chatting animatedly, laughing together, the complete opposite of the barked orders and stilted conversation found in the strict ranks of the Night’s Watch.

As Derek and Stiles approach, the circle looks up, beaming at the latter of the pair before their gaze shifts to Derek. It’s as if the atmosphere turns as frosty as the air around them, conversation halts and eye-lines drop to the leaf strewn ground. Derek doesn’t expect any less when Stiles stomps forward, oblivious to the tension emanating from the group.

“Hey everyone! Derek here is new,” Stiles introduces, pointing at him, “and is gonna help us prepare some of the rabbits we caught.”

Some of the wildlings still look uncomfortable, but Stiles’ wide smile is as disarming as ever, appearing to put most of them at ease. One of them, however, a young woman with vivid red hair speaks up with a familiarity which could border on sibling-like.

“Bringing back strays, Stiles?” She mocks, nose turned up haughtily.

The wildling spreads his arms wide, hands turned up in a _‘what can I say’_ gesture. He grins, suddenly looking sheepish. “Don’t be jealous, Lydia. What would Jackson think?”

But it’s not Lydia who’s feeling jealous all of a sudden, it’s Derek. His face is flushed and hands are clenched in way that shows his internal struggle, much to his embarrassment. He looks up from his hands only to see Lydia eyeing them critically, piercing stare much like his father’s had been when he knew Derek had done something wrong. Derek makes a note of Lydia’s perceptive abilities, tucking his hands behind his back, and makes sure to distract her when it’s time to put his plan into effect. Not until Stiles tells him who the prince actually is, of course.

So he crushes his _completely irrational_ anger and sits down on Stiles’ other side, grabbing a rabbit and sets to work on skinning it, letting the bickering of the pair wash over him.

 

* * *

 

Before Derek realises, it’s getting dark again and many of the wildlings are beginning to pack away their tools for the night. Stiles nudges Derek when it’s time to move, the action playful despite the late hour. They walk to one of the central tents, shoulders brushing with each footstep. Stiles stops, turning towards him and rubs the back of his neck, expression sheepish.

“Don’t know about where you came from, but we share bunks around here. So I guess you’ll be stuck with me.”

Derek gulps, hands clenching around his backpack. “Fine,” he grits out.

In the moonlight Stiles looks feral as he steps up to Derek, leaning into his space. Stiles’ lips brush against his ear as he speaks. “Don’t worry, Derek. I’ll protect your _modesty.”_

His neck flushes hot as Stiles pulls away again, snickering. Derek barges past and pulls open the flap of _their_ tent, cheeks flaming. He shouldn’t be letting Stiles get to him like this, but he thinks maybe it’s unavoidable. Maester Deaton was always talking about every brother’s test of his vows. Perhaps this was Derek’s.

Stiles clambers into the tent after him, bringing fresh furs and an extra bed roll. Dumping them on the ground, Derek watches as Stiles putters about for a while before crawling into the warmth of the roll. He can feel Stiles’ eyes on him as he does the same, burning across his back and shoulders before he turns around again.

Situated on the ground, Derek watches as Stiles scoots up beside him, tucking his lean body alongside Derek’s the same way a lover would. He pulls away, glaring as the wildling cocks his head, curiously bird-like. “What are you _doing?”_ He grits out, teeth gnashing.

Stiles blinks up at him, a crease forming in his brow. “Sharing warmth? Isn’t this normal for you?”

Derek is dumbfounded. He never considered what the brutal weather would be like for the wildlings, stuck outside without the shelter of a sturdy structure like Castle Black. Maybe Derek had got it wrong. Maybe Stiles wasn’t looking to bed him at all.

Derek licks his chapped lips, before replying. “I’ve never had anyone before.” He looks down at Stiles, who silently urges him to continue. “My family, uh, was killed a while back. It’s just me now. I’ve gotten by okay.”

And now Derek feels awful. Stiles is looking at him with big, mournful eyes, bottom lip jutting out in a sad pout. For Derek, the lies and lies are piling up, and it’s only been a couple of days since he met Stiles. This young wildling who took Derek in, who has reassured members of _his own_ camp, his own _family,_ that Derek is to be trusted. These people aren’t monsters. Yes, they’re a little jagged around the edges, and yes, their tactile nature is a little rough, but Derek can see that to survive in the mountains, and to survive in the snowy wilderness, they have to be. And despite all that, they have shown more hospitality than he ever received as a brother of the Night’s Watch.

It’s not until Stiles’ hushed voice starts that he realises how lost in his thoughts he had been. “That sounds lonely.”

Derek gives a stiff nod, movements restrained by the furs now tightly wrapped around him. It was the partial truth anyways, His family is hopefully alive somewhere, bickering with each other while he is fated to living in the wilderness. It was his own fault. He thought joining the Night’s Watch would bring him glory, honour, and respect, yet he has received none of these things. His own ‘brothers’ are criminals, runaways, or aged men clinging to the past legends of their order. Or Commander Argent, Derek tagged on. He was different, power hungry and forever plotting. Most likely he saw something in the order the Gods has forsaken.  Potential for control and influence, maybe.

Stiles gave a soft snuffle, nosing against his own furs as his eyes lazily drifted shut. “We can be your family, if you want.”

I was murmured so quietly, so innocently that Derek had to grit his teeth. What had he done to deserve the Wildling’s kindness? He clenched his fists underneath the bedding, quick to turn his back on his sleeping companion.

Derek was starting to think he couldn’t go through with Gerard’s orders.

He was at odds with himself.

 

* * *

To be continued...

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments please.
> 
> Talk to me on [Tumblr](http://ragged-flagons.tumblr.com/)


End file.
